


So far, yet so close

by I_Am_Many



Series: A Slice of Stucky [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Headcanon, M/M, Memory Loss, Motorbike, Motorcycles, POV Bucky Barnes, Post CACW, Post-Civil War, Stucky - Freeform, Thailand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Many/pseuds/I_Am_Many
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on their trip in Thailand, Steve and Bucky go out and the memories of a special ride home resurface as Bucky tries to reconcile his thoughts and emerging feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So far, yet so close

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there Stucky fans! Here it is: more than a “part. 2″, this is the counterpart to “Night Out, Ride Home”, my first Stucky writing that you can find here http://archiveofourown.org/works/6361525.  
> You should be warned that, while not ABSOLUTELY necessary, reading the first one will help you truly understand what goes on at some point in here. And also, that you would miss out on the innuendo and subtext. Really, just, make your life easier, go read the first one!  
> Also, a HUGE THANK YOU to my beta-reader, my pumpkin, my Steve: captain-stucky-17  
> 1- Happening in NATWW
> 
> 2-Bucky suffers from a form of DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder), resulting from Hydra “breaking” him to shape the Winter Soldier, his multiple brainwash and traumatic experiences. But Bucky is aware of the other two personalities, which makes it even scarier for him. Also, Sasha, his second personality (third being the Winter Soldier), has a tendency to somehow "merge" with Bucky from time to time, making it so that he thinks in a detached, robot-soldier way, but is still able to control himself and force himself to act as Bucky.
> 
> 3-In here, Bucky’s Russian name, given to him by Hydra (before they decided it wasn’t necessary and simply called him The Weapon, The Asset, or Soldier) is Aleksandr Dmitrievitch Morozov, hence his nickname being Sasha (because yes, I thought it’d be funny for him to have my name as his nickname.) Sasha is, like The Winter Soldier, now a whole personality within Bucky, and is a more “humane” version of the ruthless assassin, though still very “robot-soldier” like. He suffers from Aspergers’ syndrome, hence his lack of empathy or apparent disregard of social norms.
> 
> 4- CACW TRAILER SPOILER****** After getting his arm ripped off during Civil War, he got a new, improved one that, through holographic cover, makes it look like a normal, flesh limb. So no, no one noticed a guy going around with a metal arm ****** SPOILER END

Steve is getting ready. I’ve already changed quickly in the bathroom, where he couldn’t see me. He had enough of a freak out when he learnt I had an implanted port, I don’t want him seeing all the scars around it. I’ve sat on the bedroom’s balcony with a Lucky and an ashtray, waiting for him.  
I’m watching the sunset. I had forgotten that too, how simple yet beautiful it can be. After I had told Rog– Steve I remembered his mother’s name and newspaper-filled shoes, he and Wilson had tried to help me jog my memory back.  
But the time we had together was limited, both by the fact that I was still a wanted man, and also that I wasn’t always “myself”. Very few things were coming back, other than visions of my victims. Sometimes though, a sight, a scent (reassessment: most of the time, his sight or his scent) or even a song would wake something in me. A creature buried deep, though always trying to claw its way back. Something that just wants to see Steve Rogers smile again, happy, like in the few nice dreams I have from time to time. Or are they memories?  
I put out my cigaret and go back into the room, just in time to get a glimpse at Steve’s bare chest before he puts his t-shirt on and smiles at me. The creature is stirring up.

  
We take the motorbike and drive to the closest small town to find a restaurant. Steve feels like eating local, and we don’t want to attract attention by going in a joint full of foreigners where we could easily be identified. So we keep going, parallel to the beach, until we find a small place a bit off the center. The Leelawadee. No cover around. Small building, one upper floor with two windows, assessment: owner’s living quarters. One entrance, maybe–  
“ **Bucky? Hey, Bucky?**  
**-Yes?**  
**-You… you kinda froze.** ”  
Error.  
“ **-Structure assessment incomplete.**  
**-Hey, look at me.** ” he orders, and I do.                                  “ **StephenGrantRogers,a.k.aCaptainAmerica,bornJuly4th1918,PlaceOfBirthNewYork,ParentsNam–**  
**“Stop. Bucky, stop.** ”  
Err– what? Suddenly I realize Rogers’ face is blocking my vantage point. He looks…worried? Accurate.  
His… eyes. Rog– Steve’s eyes, blue. Worried. Friendly. His hands on my arms. I shake my head, as if it would make all this crap go away.  
“ **S-sorry. Sorry champ, it’s those. Old reflexes.**  
**-It’s ok pal, don’t worry. Let’s get in, alright?** ” he says, gently putting one arm around my shoulders. The gesture seems familiar, but I think I use to be the one to do that.

  
The Leelawadee is a strange blend of traditional Thai elements mixed with fake retro western decor. The objective might have been to attract foreigners. Objective not reached, we are the only foreigners here. The host welcomes us, overly enthusiastic, asking if we’re Americans. Steve says he’s Irish, which is sort of true. He has trouble with lying to innocent civilians. I don’t say anything.  
We are sat and given menus in which the dishes name are written both in English (with atrocious misspellings) and Thai.  
“ **Steve. I-I can read Thai… I think I’ve been here before, in Thailand I mean…** ” He looks up from his menu:  
“- **And you couldn’t have said so before?** ” he smirks. I know he’s trying to downplay this. Keep me from freaking out.  
“ **-Well, you were the one doing the talking.**  
**-True. So… do you remember anything from here?**  
**-No, not really. I remember how to speak Thai, but I’d rather not know why I came…**  
**-Hey, it’s fine. At least you can say you’ve travelled! I wish I had gone that far away. And look at the bright side: you can help me pick, cause I have no idea what to order!** ” It’s a white lie. I know from Wilson that Steve loves Thai takeaway. But he looks happy to put me in charge.  
“ **Ok, leave it to the pro.** ”  
He gives me an amused look and I hail the waitress.  
“ **Khaaw khao phat moo, song khrap. Khaaw neung mai phet khrap. What do you want to drink?** ” I ask Steve. The little punk is staring at me as if he hasn’t seen me in years. Which I guess is true in a way.  
“ **Earth to Steve. What do yo–**  
**-Huh, sorry, yeah, drink… hum, beer I guess.**  
**-Khaaw Singha neung, nam manao, mai sai kleua, neung khrap.** ”  
The waitress leaves and Steve is speechless. But Bucky is back:  
“ **Didn’t your mama teach you it’s not polite to stare?**  
**-She did, taught it to the both of us actually! But… well, you were just speaking fluent Thai, when all I remember you speaking apart from English is a crappy Gaelic and a bit of Yiddish.**  
**-Hey, my Gaelic is not crappy!**  
**-oh yes, yes it is! But don’t worry, I’ve nearly forgotten what little I knew, so we’re even!** ”  
The waitress is back with our drinks.  
“ **No beer?**  
**-I… I can’t really drink fizzy drinks anymore.** ” Please don’t ask me why.  
“ **Can I ask you why or…?** ” Ugh. Sasha wouldn’t mind telling him, wouldn’t even see a reason not to. ButI'm trying to push it down, to be Bucky. And Bucky knows it will make him unhappy.  
“ **You… you don’t want to know buddy. Let’s just.. Cheers, ok?** ”  
I can see worry turn up on his face for a second or two, then being concealed again. He raises his glass, looking me straight in the eyes  
“ **Til the end of the line pal** ” he says, and I feel myself smiling, the kind of smile Bucky has. The kind my face hasn’t used in decades.

  
We eat, talk about different things, people. A few memories too. The food is delicious. How could I not remember that?? Well, maybe for the same reason I can’t drink fizzy drinks: Because I was fed through tubes and IV. And when you’ve got plastic pipes shoving mush straight to your stomach, it’s never gourmet cuisine.  
Steve orders a second serving, which doesn’t surprise me. I mean, look at this body.  
“ **Didn’t my mama teach you not to stare Buck?** ” Steve says, all raised eyebrow and crooked smile.  
Shit, was I that obvious? Bucky is definitely back tonight.  
“ **Just… finish your plate okay? I’ve gotta use the john, be right back** ”

On my way back from the bathroom, one element of the retro décor I hadn’t noticed before catches my eye: a jukebox.  
I approach it and… it has so many songs… there’s a smell of whiskey and cigarette in the air… I think I–  
“ **Bucky? Pal, you good?** ” I must have been standing there for a bit, because Steve has walked over and seems concerned.  
“ **I–I think I remember…something. The music… Steve, there was music and I was drinking whiskey…**  
**-That’s good, what else?**  
**-We went dancing and… there was… a gal, Lacey?**  
**-That’s…wow, Bucky! I remember that night too!**  
**-You do?**  
**-Yes, it was… pretty hard to forget.**  
**-Why?** ” He looks… embarrassed.  
“ **Hum… well, first, it wasn’t Lacey but Leslie and, well, you kinda had an argum–**  
**-Yes, yes! An argument, because she called you a half portion! And nobody calls you names but me…**  
**-That’s it! You remember, that’s great!** ”  
Steve looks as happy and excited as an ankle-biter on Christmas morning, but the extra sparkle in his eyes tells me there’s something else he recalls that I don’t…

  
We both look at the song list on the jukebox and Steve tells me about small memories he has of us that are tied to them. It’s out of order so we can’t play any, but just reading the labels and listening to Steve talk about us rings tiny bells in the back of my mind: Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Fred Astaire, Andrews Sisters… He stops there. The world, which had faded away for a few minutes, comes back into focus.  
“ **-Hum… anyway… Hey Buck, you want something else to eat? Dessert?**  
**-No… no I’m ok.** ”  
Andrews Sisters ~ Beir Mir Bist Du Schön. No, it’s not the right title…  
“ **You sure?**  
**-Yes…** ”  
Bei mir… bei mir… bei mir bistu…shein… Yes! It all comes back to me in a flash.  
“ **Ok then, I’ll get the bill and–**  
**-and I’ll get a muffin home.** ”  
Steve stops dead in his tracks, his back to me. It’s a good thing he wasn’t carrying anything, cause it’s the kind of reaction that makes you drop what you hold, be it a phone or a platter full of glass. I think he could even have dropped his shield!  
I walk past him and, before exiting the restaurant, turn around to look at his face. It’s frozen in a mix of surprise, chock and… delight?  
“ **You get real cute when you’re surprised, you know that?** ” He’s thunderstruck, and I don’t blame him.  
I go wait by the motorbike, light up a Lucky and think about that night. About everything I can remember. I recall how furious I was with that Leslie girl. How dared she insult Steve? It was one thing for me to call him a punk and make fun of how frail he looked, but she… she had had this tone about it, as if she was way too good for him, like she was out of his league. How I defended him so fiercely. How she told me that if I liked Steve so much, maybe I should be the one dancing with him… How I slammed my glass on the table to give myself some bearing, but actually didn’t have any witty comeback for it… I “failed” to mention this part to Steve at the time.  
She left, but it had still been a good night. We drank. We had fun. Went home on our small bicycle… Now I understand that extra sparkle in Steve’s eyes.

  
I see him coming out, still a mix of bewilderment and discreet glee. That feeling, that creature in the pit of my stomach is back.  
“ **Hey punk.**  
**-Hey jerk.** ”  
He keeps his eyes down, patting himself all over.  
“ **Left back pocket.**  
**-What?**  
**-Left back-pocket. The bike’s keys, they’re in your left back-pocket.**  
**-Oh… yeah, thanks... Sooo… you remember that night?**  
**-Yes, I do. It all came back: Leslie, the dance, you at the bar, the argument…**  
**-I did feel a bit sorry you had–**  
**-Didn’t have to. She was a looker, but she wasn’t worth my time. You were.**  
**\- I… we… we got quite tipsy!**  
**-That we were! And then the ride home…** ”  
If it wasn’t so dark, I could swear he’s slightly blushing  
“ **Well, I can’t even get drunk anymore now, with the serum.**  
**-Which means you can drive us back this time!**  
**-Oh, is that how it works?**  
**-It is! Now stop bumping your gums muffin, and take us back!**  
**-Stop calling me that!** ” he replies, trying to sound offended and failing miserably.  
He starts the motorbike, I put out my cigarette under my shoe and get on behind him.

  
We ride back to the hotel at a lazy pace. Steve’s definitely not crossing any speed limit, and I gotta admit I’m enjoying it.  
Unlike that night nearly 80 years ago, we’re not zigzaging or nearly loosing balance. But in the cool night, the darkness surrounding us pierced only by far-apart lampposts, I feel like holding him. Just like he held me. Because having so much coming back in one night feels surreal. Because this all feels like a dream. A blissful dream that I could wake up from only to be back in the Cryopod. To be stripped and scrubbed and force-fed. To be put in the Chair, shoved back in a recess of my own brain, The Winter Soldier taking over once more. So I put my arms around his firm waist and wait. He doesn’t tense up. I don’t wake up. I decide to press myself against his muscly back a bit more.  
He’s changed a lot from the asthmatic, scrawny but hotheaded guy I knew then, though he can most definitely say the same about me. We’re both transformed, yet remained the same somehow. Bucky is still here somewhere, and, resting my head between Steve’s shoulder-blades, I still hear the Brooklyn kid’s heart. Slower. Steadier. But still the same thumping. I close my eyes and listen to its soothing rhythm.  
I realize the world around us has changed too. Leslie was right that night, but I wouldn’t, couldn’t see it. I was James Buchanan Barnes. Son of an army officer. Sweet-talker. Womanizer extraordinaire. And it wouldn’t be said I was a fairy. But if Leslie and I had this argument nowadays… would I react differently? Maybe. Yes, actually. Considering what I retain from my “escapade” in the 70’s, the kind of joint and neighborhood I frequented, the kind of “activity” I had… I’d be a hell of a hypocrite if I denied it.  
My head starts hurting. Error: Memory recollection too important.  
No, I don’t wanna go back. I don’t wanna revert to… whatever it is I am. I feel my muscles stiffen as I fight it. I wanna be Bucky. I wanna stay here.  
I tighten my grip on Steve. For a few seconds I feel one of his hands coming to rest on mine, squeezing my flesh fingers gently, before returning to the handlebar.  
Then he starts humming, and resonating in his ribcage I hear the tune to that old Yiddish song. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but I do.

  
_Bei mir bistu shein… To me you are lovely…_  
_Bai mir hostu chein… To me you are charming…_  
_Bist eine bei mir oif der velt… To me you are the only one in the world…_

  
It’s the farthest I can remember being from Brooklyn. But here, holding on to reality, to Steve’s sturdy body, his scent of fresh soap and after shave around me, I feel like I’ve finally come home.  
The creature in my belly is purring.

**Author's Note:**

> The Thai dialogue is made from remnants of my years in Thailand so might not be the most correct one, but I'd say it's pretty close.  
> Bucky orders two fried rice with pork, one of them without chilli, as he can't eat anything spicy. For drinks, a Singha beer for Steve and a still lemonade without salt (because yes, thai people put a dash of salt in their lemonade, I discovered it the hard way).
> 
> Here you go! Please don't hesitate to comment, I love hearing what people think about my work, be it praise or constructive criticism.


End file.
